


reconcile what we buried

by Azaphod



Series: (un)buried [1]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Identity Reveal, Other, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22913734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azaphod/pseuds/Azaphod
Summary: They are so nondescript—so obscured by a hooded jacket, pulled inward and almost out of sight save for the methodical picking of their free hand at the plate of crumbs before them—that Ortega almost walks right on past them. He doesn’t register what he’s seen, the gravity of it, until he’s halfway up to the counter; the cashier shooting him an expectant look.But instead he freezes, and feeling like he’s moving in slow motion, rotates smoothly on his heels, takes those two careful steps back, and stares.Stares at the dead person sitting there.—(UPDATE AS OF 1/20/21: Second chapter is an updated (slightly different) version of the original fic, see author's note for more details.)
Relationships: Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Ricardo Ortega/Sidestep
Series: (un)buried [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118315
Comments: 6
Kudos: 77





	1. original 2020 version

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT AS OF JAN 2021: Hello, I got back into this game, I'm working on a sequel fic to this one, but since it's nearly a year old and my writing style has improved and changed since then, I decided to go back through this first fic and give it a fresh look. The original version will remain on the first chapter, while the updated 2021 version of it will be in chapter two, just in case anyone wants to read the old version or compare the two or whatever!
> 
> (I'm doing a new playthrough of the game again right now, so once I'm refreshed on the lore and stuff I'll be posting the second fic (it's mostly done already, I just want to make sure I'm not making any glaring mistakes)

there is a dead person sitting by the window, their fingers twitching rapidly against a phone screen, face obscured under a hooded jacket, picking at what remains of their food on their plate. 

ortega almost walks right past them. he doesn’t even register what he’s seen until he’s half way up to the shop’s counter, and the cashier is staring at him expectantly for his order. but he freezes, his brain moves in slow motion and he rotates smoothly on his heel, takes two careful steps backward, and _stares_. 

stares at the dead person sitting there. 

his voice catches in his throat, a strangled beginning of something; a joyful cry? a sigh of relief? _fear? confusion?_ whatever was fighting to pour out from his heart sticks between his tongue and teeth. it doesn’t matter because they haven’t seen him yet, so engrossed with their own thoughts as he just stands there staring openly, drawing the weirded out looks from the other patrons. 

they look...they look…

they don’t look _good_ , but they don’t look dead, so it can’t be that bad. 

this person who he knows as sidestep, who he _knows_ as something entirely different--a name buried deep down, only uttered now when he’s alone and feeling particularly pathetic--sits there eating _chocolate cake_ like they have all the time in the world and in that moment, he questions himself. 

how many times did he imagine their ghost, walking down the street, shadowing along on his missions, just like the good old days? when he was younger, when he was stronger. when he failed to protect them. how many therapy appointments before they started to fade and how many more until he started to realize it was a good thing?

but this illusion is very different to how he remembers; it’s aged, the eyes are sunken with dark shadows, bared plainly to an uncaring world. there is that familiar hunch, shoulders drawn up, the invisibility to prying eyes they seemed to covet. 

there are new scars there too, were they from before or the fall?

ortega takes another few steps toward them as he feels the gazes of the other patrons burn into his back as they start to really get uncomfortable by his odd behavior. he schools his expression back into that initial look of shock and takes a deep breath to jostle the words sticking to his throat into something coherent. 

he tries for a smile when he speaks, it feels brittle, a lackluster thing--inappropriate. this not dead person snaps up to look at him, their eyes widening in palpable shock, and something else.

the living person sitting in front of him is scared.

it takes him a moment to realize it, so wrapped up in his own heady feeling of elation. they eye his hands as he gestures through the air. the way he leans forward--they scoot back a little in their seat, and he tries not to show his disappointment. he reaches out to touch, to confirm reality, that they’re here. but the look on their face keeps his hands firmly on the edge of the table.

they pretend to answer his questions; _how are you? are you alright? are you sure? what happened? why do you keep looking at me like i’m the ghost in this situation?_

every concern deflected with practiced ease, that little twinge of age old annoyance coming back to nag in the back of his mind, reminding him wistfully of the past, when they were friends, when they were closer then that. he was allowed to touch them back then. 

sidestep is retired, sidestep is dead. 

then who are _you?_

there is a newfound distrust hiding away in the corners of their eyes, rolling along the lines of their tense shoulders. even so, they reluctantly offer him bits and pieces of information--the supposed enemies, the trauma they allude to carefully, so, so carefully. it’s enough to keep his curiosity stifled in an attempt to be respectful. 

he asks if they still have their powers and they say yes.

he asks for their help and they say _why_.

sidestep is dead-- _retired_ , they are retired, they can’t help with anything really. 

suddenly he wants to scream, he wants to shout, he wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. they’re right there in front of him, as if they weren’t--as if they aren’t incredible, they aren’t dead and gone but they keep on _insisting and insisting_. 

but they aren’t listening anyways.

instead he makes a call, and tries to ignore the fidgeting, the sideways glances, the nervousness. 

he breaks when they stand to go, for a tense moment he's afraid they're about to run away, and he goes in for a hug before he can think. they clearly aren’t expecting it and they flinch, hard, but he’s too overwhelmed by the warm living, breathing person he holds. he wants to bury himself in them, he wants to stay like this for as long as they’ll let him. he’s terrified if he tightens his hold they’ll break apart in his hands, shatter into a million little pieces and disappear again.

he inhales them, almost deliriously expecting to smell freshly turned grave earth mixed with ozone, and musky, rotten skin. but that wouldn't be right, they didn't even have a body to bury in the first place. 

they return the gesture slowly, and their fingers card through the short hairs against the back of his neck, just a little shaky and unsure. their face is tucked into the corner of his throat and they’re pressed close enough he can feel their heartbeat, jackrabbit fast. and for a moment everything is okay. 

and then they pull away, taking that warmth with them.

* * *

there is a monster standing over herald, dark, armored boot stamped down hard on his chest, grinding the heel in with cruel indifference as he howls, then falls deathly quiet, head rolled back. ortega feels anger boil in his veins, he prays herald’s just unconscious, but he can’t stop to help him. 

this newcomer tilts their armored head toward him, with soft curiosity. 

they blend into the dark sky behind them, and he can only catch brief glimpses of jet black fabric billowing in the air, framing the dark nothingness of their suit, which gleams with the occasional bright iridescent flash of color. against the now burning and crumbling museum, it’s a dazzling display and the press is clearly eating it up. he’s underdressed for this, even in his fashionably cut suit.

he thinks he can win, if he’s careful, for just a split second. 

but somewhere between getting punched in the stomach--the force of it ripping him straight off his feet and onto his back, winded--and another blow across the face, the supernatural strength this thing seems to wield leaves him _gasping_ , he starts to second guess himself again. 

the creature doesn’t seem to care, they back off to let him usher the reporters and random onlookers away from the danger. they don’t even speak when he goads, aiming for playful banter to stall for time. argent was on her way, _she’s on her way_. 

he knows he’s going to lose. 

he wants to say he puts in a few good hits, he knows he’s done a little damage. but the thing comes at him, harsh and steady and it’s not even that quick; moving like it was _inevitable_ they were going to push him back, to find the perfect moment to strike, crushing his arm in their grasp until he _screams_ and feels bone crack-- _snap_. 

he wheezes with agonizing pain that radiates up his entire arm as they release him, letting him drop to the ground with disdain. 

he’s going to lose. 

he watches them stalk around him, the edges of that calm indifference starting to fray away as they snarl wordless, their voice pitched deep with distorters and half mad sounding. they’re meant to encourage fear and by god they’re working. 

he blinks, his eye is swelling painfully and it’s hard to keep them open. with all his might, he looks up into the impassive dark mask, waiting for the monologue, the kick to the chest, to be pushed into the dirt like they did to herald, or worse. 

but they just...stand there, barely moving. for a moment it’s so eerily quiet he can’t even hear the shouts of reporters or the frantic clicks of their cameras, just the blood rushing in his ears. 

the monster stumbles to a crouch in front of him, suddenly careless in their once graceful movements. he can’t even flinch away from them, his vision is swimming and his body is sluggish to respond to anything. but he can still see them, their hands reaching out--for what? the _kill?_ he can spot the nanovores strapped to their arm and his veins go cold, staring at the dormant and stolen tech that he almost disrupted in the fight. 

_“you idiot!” they had screamed, the distorters caught the noise and transformed it into a savage snarl of rage instead of fear as they backed off, clutching that sparkling red mass of destruction._

the hands that touch his face are cold and sleek, almost feather-light with their care, despite the raw power he knows they hold. he can’t keep the face of that monstrous mask in focus anymore, but he can feel the way they shake apart as they close around his throat. 

he waits for the pressure, drawing in a desperate last gasp of air as the world snaps into hyper focus, the roar of fire and shouts of people rushing back in with a shot of adrenaline beating away frantically in his heart. it almost masks the quiet noise he hears, so quiet the disruptors can’t even pretend it into something imposing as it is clearly a sob. 

just a quick exhalation of distress, broken, and the grip on his throat vanishes, and it crawls up his neck to hold his jaw, a clawed thumb just ghosting over his cheek. the cold metal draws shivers down his spine, and he half-heartedly raises his own hand to pull them away, to create some distance, but he only manages to grab hold of their wrist, anchoring them in closer. 

there’s a dead person pushing him down, cupping the nape of his neck in their hands with the gentleness of a lover as they lay him on his side, like they’re tucking him into a grave of hard, broken concrete. he can’t fight it, and darkness comes to finally claim his vision. 

he wonders if this is what it felt like when they fell.


	2. new 2021 version

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the updated version. It's roughly 500 words longer, and hopefully much more put together

There is a dead person sitting by the window. Head down as their fingers twitch, skeleton thin, tapping out a rapid rhythm against a phone screen. 

They are so nondescript—so obscured by a hooded jacket, pulled inward and almost out of sight save for the methodical picking of their free hand at the plate of crumbs before them—that Ortega almost walks right on past them. He doesn’t register what he’s seen, the gravity of it, until he’s halfway up to the counter; the cashier shooting him an expectant look. 

But instead he freezes, and feeling like he’s moving in slow motion, rotates smoothly on his heels, takes those two careful steps back, and stares. 

Stares at the dead person sitting there.

He tries to find his voice, but it catches somewhere in his throat, strangling the beginning of a cry—of what? Joy? Relief or confusion? _Fear?_ Whatever was fighting to pour out from his heart sticks, gumming up between his tongue and teeth. 

It doesn’t matter because the dead person hasn’t seen him yet, so blissfully engrossed with their own thoughts as he openly stands there ogling, drawing sideways looks from the other patrons.

They look…

They look so...

Well, they don’t look good. But they don’t look dead, obviously, as they move and breathe. So this alternative can’t be that bad. 

This person who he had known as Sidestep, who he knows as someone else entirely—that name is buried deep, _deep_ down, and only uttered aloud when he’s alone and feeling particularly pathetic. They sit there, collecting the crumbs of what might have been a slice of chocolate cake, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like they aren’t a ghost, and in that moment, he doubts himself.

How many times had he imagined this; their ghost, walking down the street, shadowing alongside him on missions, sometimes masked, sometimes not, like a remnant of the good old days. Back when he was younger, faster, when he thought he was strong enough to protect them. How many sessions in mandated therapy before they started to fade, vanishing from the crowds, from his shadow—and how many more until he started to realize it was a good thing?

But this isn’t the illusion of his traumatized mind, or at least, it isn’t one he remembers. This ghost before him is aged, greying, silvery hair cut short. Eyes that sink into their face under that hood, sunken even deeper with dark shadows that speak of lost sleep. There are things he recognizes; the habitable hunch, shoulders all drawn tight. A call for the invisibility to prying eyes they always seemed to covet so.

There are scars, here and there. Were they always there, had he forgotten them? Or were they from the fall?

Ortega takes another few steps toward the ghost, pushed by an invisible gravity—and partly because he’s drawing a lot of attention just standing there staring. He tries to school his expression into that initial punch of shock, taking a deep breath to jostle the words he needs into something coherent. 

He smiles when he speaks, and this is his habit, _fake it ‘til you make it_. It feels brittle, a lackluster thing made inappropriate in their presence when it should have been genuine. This dead person—who is not dead, it seems—snaps their head up to look at him, their eyes blown wide with palpable shock, and something else.

The living ghost across from him is scared. Terrified, even. 

It takes him a moment to fully realize it, so swept away in his own heady cocktail of elation and disbelief. But there it is, written into the way they eye his hands with trepidation whenever he gestures too grandly, flinching when he speaks too loudly. He tries to lean into them and they pull away, pressing back into their seat. 

Hurt, he reaches out to them, half for comfort, half to confirm reality; that they’re real, and not another figment of his mind. But the look they pin him with stays his hand. The distance between them is a chasm, and he can only stew in his disappointment. 

He asks them questions to fill the void, and they pretend to answer. 

_How are you?_ is met with a blank eyed stare.

_Are you alright?_

_Are you sure?_

_What happened?_

_Why do you keep looking at me like I’m the ghost in this situation?_

Every concern is deflected with a practiced ease that sets him on edge, and oddly draws him back into the past; when their monotonous disregard for his worries over them were met with the same reaction as now. It stirs something wistful in him, a longing for the past. When they were friends, when they were closer then that. 

He was allowed to touch them, back then.

Sidestep is retired, they say. Sidestep is _dead_.

Then who are _you?_

In the wake of fear there is newfound distrust. It hides away in the corners of their eyes, the tight crows feet; the rolling lines of their tense shoulders as they peer around in unsubtle suspicion. Even so, they reluctantly offer him information, bits and pieces that tantalize as much as they confuse him; the supposed enemies, the trauma they allude to oh so carefully. It’s enough to stifle his curiosity in an attempt to be respectful. 

He asks if they still have their powers and they say yes.

He asks for their help and they say _why._

Afterall, Sidestep is dead— _retired._ Retired. They are retired, they can’t possibly be of any help. 

He’s seized by a sudden, unexpected urge to scream at that. He wants to shout, to grab them by the shoulders and shake them, whatever it takes to make them realize how incredible it is that they’re there before him. That they can’t be dead and gone, not while they are whole in his hands. But they aren’t listening, not really, and the distance is too great to bridge. 

Instead he makes a call and tries to ignore all the fidgeting across the table, the sideways glances and the nervousness.

When they make to leave, to vanish into the crowds and become his ghost again—he breaks. 

He hauls them into a hug before his brain can stop him. They clearly weren't expecting the sudden contact, and they flinch into it, hard. For a tense moment he’s afraid they might scramble away from him and bolt. He’s too overwhelmed by the warm, living _breathing_ person he holds to even think of letting them go. 

In slow increments, they return the gesture. Tucking their arms around his shoulders stiffly, awkwardly. But their fingers card gently into the short hairs at the nape of his neck, like they had done so many times before. Shaky and unsure from lack of practice. Their face is hidden in the crook of his shoulder, pressed close enough to feel the erratic, jackrabbit pulse of their heart beating against his chest. 

He inhales them, pulling them even closer, deliriously expecting to smell freshly turned grave soil, heavy with ozone. The sickly sweet stench of rotten flesh. But that wouldn’t even be right. After all, there had been no body for them to bury. He wants to bury himself in them now. He wants to stay in this moment for as long as they’ll allow, even as his body thrums with a terror that if he tightens his grip, they’ll shatter apart in his hands, break into a million, irreparable pieces. 

They make the choice for him. Pulling away, firmly, with no reluctance. The warmth leaves with them.

— 

There is a monster standing over Herald. 

A dark, armored boot stamps down hard into his chest, grinding the heel in with a cruel indifference as he howls—then falls deathly quiet, his head lolling back, his youthful face battered and bloody. 

Ortega feels anger simmer in his veins, sparking alongside the electricity in a heady wave. He prays for Herald’s survival, that he’s just unconscious. But there isn’t any time to help him, not as this newcomer angles their armored head toward him with an unnervingly soft curiosity.

They are a shadow against the night sky behind them. He can only catch brief glimpses of jet black fabric shimmering in the air, framing the dark nothingness of their suit, which gleams with the occasional bright burst of iridescence. Against the now crumbling and burning museum ruins, it’s a dazzling display. One the press clearly delights in. 

He’s underdressed for this, even in his fashionably cut suit.

He makes the mistake of thinking he can win, if he’s careful.

But then somewhere between taking a hit to the stomach, the force behind it ripping him straight off his feet and flat onto his back, winded—and next blow he receives across the face, splitting the skin of his cheek and snapping his head back hard—well, he starts to second guess himself again.

This creature of metal and malice doesn’t seem to care. Not as they back off to let him usher the reporters and unfortunate ogglers away from the line of fire. They don’t utter a word in retort while he goads them, trying to stall for time in the form of playful bantering. 

Argent was on her way— _she’s on her way_.

He’s pretty sure he’s going to lose before that becomes a problem. 

He wants to think he’s put in a good few hits, and he knows he’s done some damage. It just isn’t enough. The thing comes at him, every move is harsh and steady, almost slow; like it was simply inevitable for them to push him back, to find that perfect moment of faltering, the mistake in his steps, to strike. They crush his arm in their clawed grasp, hauling him up and up until he dangles in the air, the pressure just keeps increasing until he _screams_ and the bone cracks— _snaps_.

Lights burst behind his eyes as he wheezes, agony lacing up his entire arm, pulsing through him as he cries. They release him almost disdainfully, and he drops to the ground.

He’s going to lose.

When he manages to pry his eyes open, the monster is circling him, curling low in a stalk as whatever edges of that calm indifference they went into the fight with begin to fray. They snarl wordlessly, their voice pitching deep and guttural from distorters, sounding half mad. They’re a clever technology, meant to encourage fear, to make the user larger then life—and by god, they’re working. 

He tries to blink, but his eye is swelling painfully. With all his might he forces his head up to look into the impassive darkness of their mask. He’s waiting for the monologue, the subsequent kick in the chest; to be pushed into the dirt just as they had done to Herald. 

But instead they just... go still. Almost invisible in the darkness without the flourish of movement. For a moment everything goes eerily quiet. Not even the shouts of reporters nor the frantic clicks of their cameras reaches him. Just the blood rushing in his ears.

Suddenly, like a puppet cut from its wires, the once graceful monster stumbles into a crouch in front of him. 

He can’t flinch away. His vision swims, and his body is so sluggish, the only thing he can feel is pain. But he can keep them front and center before him, can make out their hands reaching out for—for what, the _kill?_ This close he can feel the heat of the nanovores they have strapped to their arm, and the sight of that red mass of destruction inches away has his blood running cold. 

He had almost disrupted them in the fight. 

The monster had screamed, called him an _idiot_ —and the voice distorters had caught the noise and threw it back as a savage snarl of rage instead of fear. 

There would be nothing he could do to stop them if they decided to turn that writhing mass on him now. 

A cold touch startles him out of his fears. Their hand is sleek, almost featherlight in its care, despite the raw power lurking behind it. It takes Herculean effort to keep the face of that monstrous mask in focus, but he doesn’t need sight to feel the way they shake apart as their fingers close around his throat.

He sucks in a desperate gasp of air as the world snaps into hyperfocus, his arms struggle feebly but he can only wait for the pressure. Every sound is suddenly magnified—the snarl of fire, sirens in the distance, growing louder; the screams of unknown strangers, whether in fear or elation, he can’t tell. 

It almost masks the quiet, almost inaudible sound he hears, and not even the best voice disruptors in the world would have been able to pretend it into something that isn’t clearly a sob. 

It’s a quick exhalation of distress, brokenly human. The grip on his throat lessens, crawling up his neck to cradle his jaw. A clawed thumb ghosts gently over his cheek and the cold metal draws a shiver down his spine. Half heartedly, he tries to raise a hand to push them away; to create some distance between them, but he only manages to cling to their wrist, anchoring them in close.

Their claws brush up, carding through the blood matted hair at the nape of his neck, and his heart shatters with an aching familiarity. 

The dead person eases him down into a grave of hard, broken concrete with the gentleness of a lover. He can’t fight it, can’t even voice the grief and hurt beyond a whimper that they shush quietly. Darkness rushes up to meet him, claiming his vision. 

Before it takes his mind away with it, he has time to wonder if this is what it felt like when they fell.

**Author's Note:**

> i just think about ortega seeing sidestep first a lot...and then this sorta spiraled.
> 
> (EDIT AS OF JAN 2021: Just a reminder that chapter two is the same fic, but updated and hopefully an improved read)


End file.
